Are You My Mummy?
by Dubbers
Summary: We all know this: John Watson's mother must have been one hell of a woman to raise a son who could put up with Sherlock. Or '5 people who aren't John's mum, and 1 who was plus another one who isn't '


**Written for a kinkmeme prompt hypothesising who could possibly be the mother of cuddly BAMF John H Watson.  
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**Requires vague knowledge of Mat Smith's DW, and Torchwood, but you could just skip those.  
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**Just a bit of a laugh, except the last one is kind of bittersweet, and some Reichenbach spoilers (only mentioned at, but the BIG ONE) crept in.  
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**I own nothing, self-beta'd and brit-picked, so feel free to point out mistakes!  
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**Enjoy!  
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Are you my mummy?

**1**

When Mike brings the man in, Sherlock doesn't notice it immediately, maybe because he's too absorbed in his experiments, maybe because the man has been trained to hide it his entire life, and is really rather good at it. It certainly isn't because Sherlock's abilities are slipping. When he does finally realise though, it's only all the more fascinating.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asks, still ignorant, and then proceeds to explain Dr. Watson's life.

And then Dr. Watson tenses.

"Is there anything about me you don't know?"

And Sherlock _sees_. His bearing is military, he's already seen that, but there's more hidden underneath, hidden by the way the man makes himself unobtrusive – as if he's been trained – but fighting the urge to stand up straighter, taller, to make people notice him and command the attention of the room. It's almost_ regal_.

From the corner of his mind Sherlock remembers the conspiracy theories, about how the prince who was stillborn about 39 years ago, wasn't actually stillborn.

And Sherlock _knows._

"Your name isn't really Dr. John Watson. Watson – obviously a joke alias – What son? I bet your brother Harry finds it hilarious." John's lips quirk. "But no, you don't have a brother, you have sisters; Princesses Harriet and Willamina, or Harry and Wills for short. Although I must say I didn't realise Harry was gay; unless you're going to tell me Clara's short for Clarence or some other such thing, but that seems highly unlikely. Coupled with a drinking problem – I bet she's popular at home. Also, John – probably not what's on your birth certificate, not after what the last King John did – much more likely to be James, but of course you've been brought up as John. I'm sure the medical doctorate is real though, as well as the fact that you were wounded in the war – not your leg however – most likely the shoulder; I'd say a foiled attempt on your life, meant to be passed off as just another casualty, because of course nobody save a select few – including Mike here – know that you're really the future King of England…"

Sherlock trails off, feeling rather pleased with himself. He knows he's right – mostly just from Stamford's reaction, as John has remained remarkably stoic. "Did I get anything wrong?" he asks anyway, just in case.

"Just my first name."

"Not James? Hmm; it's still most likely something beginning with J though, to make it easier to adjust. Jeremy? No, Ji-"

"John." John interrupts.

Sherlock frowns.

"What?"

"My name really is John."

"Huh. Well, there's always something. But you are the future King of England?"

"Yes."

"And you are looking for a flatmate?"

"That was the idea. It won't be a problem, will it? It's not like people will recognise me; most of the world doesn't even know I exist." He says casually, brushing it off like he's had a lifetime to come to terms with it. He has.

"I noticed." Sherlock sinks into his thoughts on the matter – royalty raised away from the public eye, sent to a normal school, trained to fit in, have a "commoner's" life; probably the family's way of responding to accusations of not being able to relate to their subjects. Seems a little bit excessive if he's honest, but there's no reasoning with some people.

"So…?" John prompts.

"Hmm?"

"Will it be a problem?"

"Will what be?"

"Me being…you know…" John sighs.

Sherlock snorts. "Please, my brother practically _is_ the British government. So no; no problem at all."

Sherlock meets his flatmate-to-be's eyes, and he watches, intrigued, as a massive burden lifts off the man's shoulders. John stands up straighter; not regally, not yet, but no longer trying to hide himself from the world. Sherlock feels unusually pleased that he's the one responsible.

Next he plans to cure that psychosomatic limp. First however, he has a riding crop to collect.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." He winks and twirls away, but not fast enough to miss Stamford ask:

"So, what do you think your Grandma will make of this? You, sharing a flat with her Government's little brother?"

"Knowing her," John replies, "she probably set this up."

**2**

"It's good to see you again Captain Watson."

"Likewise Captain Harkness."

They stand tense for a moment, before Jack asks: "We really going to do this kiddo?" and holds out his arms. John falls swiftly into them, clutching the well-remembered greatcoat and letting the feeling of home wash over him.

"Dad," he breathes out contentedly.

Sherlock watches on, and John watches the confusion playing through his eyes even though he keeps his face masked. He can almost _see_ the synapses as they fire and fire and fire; practically _hear_ the questions buzzing around the younger man's brain.

_Question: How can John's father be so young?_

_Answer: Must have conceived John in 19?, making him ? at the time. Quite unlikely. More likely: is older than he looks/plastic surgery._

_Question: Why didn't John ask for his help after returning from Afghanistan?_

_Answer: Judging by the set of their shoulders when they first saw each other, bad blood between them, some old grievance, but not too serious as they've now decided to put it behind them._

_Question: What's with the coat?_

And so on and so forth. Sherlock's brain is getting the best workout it has had in quite some time.

"You could just ask you know," John smiles after a few minutes idle chitchat, finally taking pity on his friend.

Sherlock blinks. "Who was your mother?"

Past tense, John notices, but of course he'd deduced that she's dead back when they'd first met. Incorrectly of course.

Jack smirks, and John isn't quite quick enough to prevent him blurting it out.

"I am."

Sherlock blinks again.

"But of course people would give me looks if Johnny here went around calling me Mommy."

John grimaces at the nickname. "People give you looks anyway."

"Yeah, but those are for the _right_ reasons."

Sherlock finally seems to recover slightly. "I…what?" Or maybe not.

"Are we seriously having this conversation?"

"Aren't you proud of your old man?"

"You're _very_ old. How old exactly now?"

Jack shrugs. "Well I was buried alive for about 2000 years, so…I've kinda lost count."

The Captain doesn't display any signs that he's lying and Sherlock's mind boggles. To be fair, John looks rather shocked too.

"Jesus Christ Dad, when the hell did this happen?"

"Not important right now kiddo."

"Not important? How can you say that?"

"It's in the past. What's important is that I'm fine, you're fine, and I think your boyfriend's about to faint."

"He's not my-oh bloody hell Sherlock!" John cries as Sherlock's brain decides that enough is enough; it's spent the last few minutes being tormented and it won't stand for anymore. And as it shuts down it just manages to process:

"So if you two aren't…_you know_…can I…?

"No!"

"Spoilsport. What do you think he'd make of my pet pterodactyl?"

**3**

Sherlock Holmes says: "The address is 221b Baker Street" and John freezes. Mr. Holmes doesn't notice because he's already out the door, but Mike does, and turns to him with a steady hand on his shoulder.

"You alright there mate?"

"What?" John startles, before realising what the question had been. "I mean of course. I'm fine. Good, well, I'll just be off then. Thanks Mike." He spits his words out and then hurries off to spend the next few hours fretting over what he's going to do.

What would Sherlock think when he finds out his new prospective landlady was his new prospective flatmate's mother? Or did he already know? Was this some elaborate scheme his mum had set up in order to get him to come home?

He thinks it's unlikely, but the paranoia is unnerving.

Maybe it's for the best, but he hadn't wanted to intrude on his mum, even though she had offered him a place to stay. He'd felt like that would be giving up though, as much as the idea of being looked after again still appeals to him. That, and the rent from the other two flats was pretty much her only income, and he couldn't take that away from her by taking one of them, and her flat only had one bedroom.

But maybe this could work; sharing a flat with Mr. Holmes would enable him to pay his own rent, be independent, be near his mum and help her all at the same time.

It still feels somewhat like running home to mummy, but he may as well see if it's a feasible option first, and if Sherlock hasn't already mentioned his name and it doesn't go well there is no need for her to know.

As luck would have it (or common sense really, because of course Sherlock doesn't have a key yet) Mrs. Hudson opens the door and it's all downhill (or maybe uphill) from there.

"Oh my boy!" she shrieks, and he's suddenly being fussed over and kissed and hugged to within an inch of his life.

"_Mum!_" he tries to protest, but she just holds him tighter. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock still standing awkwardly in the doorway, a puzzled frown on his face.

'Adopted?' he mouths, and John shakes his head as much as he's able to.

Sherlock nods and John can see him work it out, that he and Harry are from his landlady's previous marriage, the previous husband she never talks about but keeps one photo of beside her bed.

Not the one whose death Sherlock had 'ensured'. Now that would have been awkward.

Suddenly John is free however and Mrs. Hudson-previously-Watson has grabbed her other lodger by the shoulders and crushed him to her.

"Oh Sherlock!" she cries. "Thank you for bringing my boy back."

The look on Sherlock's face is priceless, and John can't remember anymore why he didn't go to his mum for help sooner.

A few days later, after he's killed a man for his new flatmate (just another thing his mum is never finding out) John is settling into 221b and stubbornly insisting that he'll pay the usual shared rent and will not take no for an answer.

"Fine," his mum finally capitulates, the perfect model of a tired mother worn down by her child's endless nagging. John suspects however that she'll simply lower Sherlock's special rate to something even lower, leaving her son with more than enough money to spare.

But in all honesty, John doesn't think he'll mind.

"As long as you remember I'm your mother dear, not your housekeeper."

It might even be…_nice._

**4**

Sherlock is sulking on the couch when a chubby grey-haired lady enters the room, followed swiftly by John in a yet another hideous Christmas jumper.

"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet m-"

"Your mother, yes, I know. Obvious from the jumper you're wearing – a gift of course, has to be, design like that; no self respecting man would buy that for himself– haven't I explained this before? Not from your girlfriend she dumped you last week, something about how you forgot her name. But it has to be someone close; despite the design the fabric's expensive, but you don't have many close female friends because you flirt with every woman you talk to, so has to be a relative. Female, I hear you ask, of course, men don't buy each other clothes very often, certainly not the men you're friends with. So a close female relative; the jumper's too large for you though, a habit that mothers pick up and never truly lose because they still believe 'you'll grow into it'. The only reason you'd have for wearing that jumper is because you're with the person who bought it for you; therefore this must be your mother."

"Hello there dear," John's mother says jovially.

Sherlock scowls. John runs a hand over his face.

"Sherlock-"

"Yes yes, I know, play nice." He swiftly bounds up from his seat, plasters a grin on his face and shakes the woman's hand before she'd even offered it. "Hello Mrs. Watson, I'm Sherlock Holmes; your son's flatmate in case you hadn't realised, it's _awfully_ nice to meet you, do _please_ make yourself comfortable."

John rolls his eyes in despair, but Sherlock's already turning back to the sofa, sitting himself down so he's in a better position to continue his analysis of John's mother. She has completely grey hair, almost white, changed prematurely as it's still thick and healthy. She's short sighted, but only a small amount as she'd looked over her glasses at him when she'd walked in, but through them when he'd approached. She lives abroad judging by the accent, but it's not one he recognises – _interesting – _sounds slightly Nordic though, no tan either, so somewhere without much sun up north, possibly Greenland or one of the small islands there abouts, which would explain why he doesn't know the accent. She's also dressed in layers for much colder weather, gloves in her red winter coat pocket and scarf hanging loose around her neck, could have undone it when she came in but unlikely as only one side of the scarf is damp – it's been drizzling for the last seven minutes – and she doesn't have an umbrella. That, coupled with the lack of baggage says she's only recently arrived and not planning on being in London for long – she could have dropped her stuff off at a hotel but she would have dropped her scarf and gloves off at the same time. Also explains why John didn't turn to her for monetary help when he'd returned to England (although she's obviously well off judging by the designer labels, discreet ones though, bought for good quality and durability rather than as a way of showing off) if she isn't in England much. Housewife most likely, or part time job (or both) judging by the calluses on her hands and the roughness of her palms, also does a lot of sewing - grooves from a needle on her left hand thumb and forefinger, pinprick marks on right, so left-handed, although maybe ambidextrous as her phone's in her right jeans pocket and-

"It's Christmas dear," she interrupts Sherlock's line of thought. He snaps back to the present and furrows his brow, slightly concerned about her mental health.

"Christmas Eve technically, I do have a calendar you know." He waves a hand to one wall where there is indeed a calendar hanging up – it was a present from Molly and therefore covered in kittens but John had refused to let him throw it away.

John's mum chuckles and John looks embarrassed.

"That's not what I meant dear," she says, still smiling, even as Sherlock restrains himself from telling her he isn't her 'dear' and if she calls him that one more time he'll sic the skull on her. "You called me Mrs. Watson, but my surname's not Watson, it's Christmas."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John. His mother's well maintained wedding ring tells him she's still married to John's father (she doesn't seem like the sort of woman to re-marry, and she's far too old fashioned – discrete pearl earrings, no other piercings – to have kept her maiden name) which means it's his flatmate (supposedly in Harry's footsteps) who didn't take his father's name.

"Can you blame me?" John asks as if he's read his mind, which is alarming as usually it's the other way around. "Besides, originally I wanted to be a preist."

"Oh. I see," says Sherlock, although he really doesn't. John doesn't call him on it however, as he's quickly ushering his mother into his own chair, as far away from his flatmate as could still be considered polite, not that said flatmate cares, because he's spotted something rather interesting on Mrs. Christmas' trousers.

Fur. Soft brown in shade, quite short in length but still long enough to be visible from where he's sat. It's on her thigh, which says the creature it's come from is either tall, or that she was bending down. Can't be from a strangers pet then – no one in London owns anything larger than a handbag these days, and people don't kneel to stroke strangers pets. But John's mum is allergic to dogs, and the hair's too thick to be a cat's.

And then of course there's the rather obvious hoofmark on her shin.

Several hours of social niceties later, Mrs. Christmas leaves. Not through the door. Not even through the window. But if asked, all parties would deny that John's mum waves goodbye and then clambers up the chimney.

Sherlock steeples his fingers together and_ thinks_.

"What did you say her first name was again?" he asks after a few minutes.

"I didn't."

"No, but it was on the envelope you handed over, the one that's been sitting on the table for a week without a stamp, but with an address, meaning you intended to send it and then realised you wouldn't need to, most likely because your mother warned you she was coming. Of course I thought the letter was a joke; addressed to Mr and Mrs Christmas, at the North Pole: of course it was a joke, it had to be a joke, but a rather pathetic one at that and-"

"Mary." John cuts him off before he can really get going.

"What?"

"Her name's Mary."

Sherlock takes a few seconds to digest this.

"It wasn't a joke."

"No."

"But that would make your dad…"

"Yep."

There's a weighty pause in which Sherlock seems to be trying sentences out in his mind.

"John, I don't know quite how to tell you this…but Santa isn't _real_."

John just snorts.

"Try telling him that."

**5**

Sherlock's just about to burst into the sitting room and surprise John into dropping his tea (accidentally of course) when there's a strange buzzing noise and the door to their flat flies open. Sherlock immediately ducks around the corner and out of sight – nothing to do with safety; he finds that people give even more away if they're unaware they're being observed.

And as John likes to remind him, he's killed people: it could be a good chance to practise.

Sherlock peers back around the wall for a second to take a mental picture before retreating. This is what he observes:

There are four people outside, three of them in various stages of eye-rolling behind the one in front who's looking very pleased with himself. Dark haired, big forehead, wearing tweed (who wears tweed anymore? Really?) and a bowtie pointing a metal rod with a glowing green tip towards the door. Two of the eye rollers are women; the younger has long ginger hair and wears a very short skirt; the older woman has a mess of riotous blonde curls and appears to be dressed entirely in leather. The other man is really rather plain in comparison, even with his dark blonde ponytail.

A somewhat bizarre group of people, truth be told, even for London's standards.

What's strangest though is that he can't get any decent deductions off any of them is that they're two couples (the blonde man and the ginger woman have been happily married for a few years – highly polished rings, still fashionable) and that the blonde man's a nurse.

Sherlock thinks he looks like a bit of an idiot.

"You ever heard of knocking?" John asks calmly, but with a long suffering tone usually reserved for Sherlock's own antics. However it does tell him that these people aren't strangers; old friends or distant family maybe, and now that he thinks about it John could have _possibly_ mentioned that some relatives were in town for a few days. The decay rate of umbrellas had seemed more important at the time. Now however…Sherlock shifts his bodyweight slightly so he's just able to see the group without coming too far out of hiding. There doesn't appear to be much family resemblance at all.

"Where's the fun in that?" the man with the stick/rod/wand? says before stepping further inside the flat, followed closely by the other three.

John runs a hand over his face. "Oh god you sound just like him."

"Like who?"

"My flatmate."

Sherlock frowns at that. The two women immediately start glancing around the flat whilst the idiot asks:

"Can we urr…_talk_ here?"

"It's alright; Sherlock went out a while ago."

From his position by the stairs Sherlock suppresses a smile at his flatmate's incompetence. For of course John has utterly failed to realise that Sherlock's window is just as viable an entrance as the door.

"He's called Sherlock? Isn't that a bit unusual?" asks the curly haired woman, who seems to be checking the room for other exits. Sherlock immediately decides she's the greatest threat, some sort of special ops going by her stance, used to working undercover. And then she looks towards the stairs and he's forced to flatten him back against them.

"Yes well, he is a bit unusual really."

"Is he fit?"

"Amy!"

"Good question."

"River!"

"I was only asking!" Amy protests. "I bet he's tall, dark and handsome and probably a lawyer; am I right? I'm right aren't I?"

"Actually he's the 'World's Only Consulting Detective'" says John shutting the door with a _clunk!_ and Sherlock can hear the quotation marks in his voice.

There's a sudden pause in the conversation and the people in the next room go entirely still, as if a tiny black hole had appeared in the living room and sucked them all through before closing itself.

And then the ginger (Amy?) explodes.

"Oh my god, my grandson is sharing a flat with _Sherlock Holmes! _Rory that's amazing."

The idiot – whose name is apparently Rory – bites his lip. "I love how _that's_ the part of the sentence you find most amazing. Not that we're grandparents, not that Sherlock Holmes is somehow living in the 21st century, but that John's his flatmate. Unbelievable."

"I know! Who would've thought it?"

"How did that even happen Doctor? I mean…Sherlock Holmes-"

"Well Rory, when two men like each other very much, but not in _that_ way, they-"

"Give each other a special hug?"

"-get a flat together!"

"I'm not gay!"

"I think we've got that 'Three Galaxies' Watson." River teases. "Such a wonderful flirt! Guess whose side he got that from?"

"Oh god." John moans, and Sherlock has to suppress a snigger.

"Hey, I thought I'd asked a valid question!" the idiot persists. "Sherlock Holmes, 21st century…_what?_"

"Well, when your father and I were conceiving John-"

"Oh god."

"-up against the TARDIS console-" doctor [insert name here] interjects.

"Oh my god."

"-things may have got a bit-"

"-out of control."

"Oh, good times!"

"Waaay too much information there guys! Did not need to know about my daughter's sex life thank you!"

By this point Sherlock is rather confused, because apparently ginger and idiot are curly's parents, and curly and tweed are John's parents (and supposedly Harry's too). And so whilst they're all talking about _resetting the universe a couple of times, things are bound to go wrong _and _it's kind of like spatial genetic multiplicity, but not really anything like that at all to be honest…_Sherlock creeps around the corner and secrets himself behind the curtain. Somehow they all remain entirely oblivious, standing in the middle of the room and arguing.

Eventually they settle down, and John asks:

"Anyone for a cup of tea?"

After that it all gets rather dull; the sort of thing Sherlock would expect at any family get together, except with a little more talk about saving the universe. He has hundreds of questions but all he's finding out is that the neighbour's cat has arthritis, one of Amy's mates has got married and Slitheen really don't like vinegar. The visual isn't great either: all he can see from his new hiding place is Rory's nose.

'_Boring!' _he thinks, as loud as he can, with the vague hope that some kindly god (existent or otherwise) will hear him.

"Sherlock!" John calls. "Are you going to hide behind that curtain all day?"

Silence falls.

Sherlock freezes, his brain working overtime to come up with a halfway decent explanation.

"I'm not hiding!" he eventually protests. "I'm examining the curtain fibres for evidence of malcontent."

"Oooh, sounds fascinating! Can I join in?" exclaims the man whom everyone seems to address as his PhD. (He's not a medical doctor, Sherlock can tell that much.)

"No!" Sherlock protests as John says:

"I'm sure the curtains are perfectly happy since you've stopped wiping blood on them. Now aren't you going to say hello?"

Of course the question that John is really asking is 'Aren't you going to come deduce my visitors?' which is exactly what he's been dying to do since they came in. He's sure John is well aware of this now.

He does so hate being manipulated, but this is just too tempting, and his brain is crying out for answers. So Sherlock rounds the corner and everything immediately slots into place. John is standing next to River, and there at least the resemblance can be seen. There is only one possible solution.

"So, where is it then?" he demands from the tweed man, who is lounging on his sofa, feet on the table.

"Where's what?"

"Your time machine."

"You do know Time Travel's impossible right?" the idiot asks. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Then why did you capitalise it?"

"I…what?"

"Oh please, and here I was hoping you weren't as much of an idiot as you look. The inflection of your voice changed, showing that you treat the words 'time travel' with a great deal of respect, in much the same way you call him" he points at the dark haired man "doctor with a capital D. Obvious really. And why on earth would you capitalise such a phrase unless you had experience of it? Ergo, your denial only served to confirm my original hypothesis."

"Brilliant!" exclaim both John and the Doctor at the same time.

"Ah," says Sherlock. "So that's where you get it."

**+1**

Mrs. Watson isn't anyone of great importance; she doesn't have freaky crime fighting skills, or otherworldly powers; she doesn't look after the world's only consulting detective. She can't travel in time and space, she doesn't keep reindeers (with red noses and otherwise) and she certainly can't come back from the dead.

If she could, John hopes she would have.

He misses her.

He visits her grave once a month (or whenever he can get away from Sherlock); with flowers from the same street vendor each time he goes. Sometimes he gets her lilies, other times violets or tulips. He thinks she'd like the variety. She'd always loved orchids though, so he makes sure to pick them up on special occasions. They're not cheap, and he's not exactly rich but he doesn't care. She deserves the best.

He wonders sometimes if this is his way of making up for failing her in life. For not being there when she'd needed him.

He'd been out in Afghanistan, trying to keep his country safe, his family safe; whilst back home she'd been slowly dying.

And then she was dead.

Mrs. Watson hadn't been anyone of great importance; she didn't have freaky crime fighting skills, or otherworldly powers; or look after the world's only consulting detective. She couldn't travel in time and space, and she didn't keep reindeers (with red noses and otherwise).

But she was kind and gentle and loved her children like all children should be loved. When John had had a bad day at school she'd know; she'd sweep him up into her arms – even when he was much too big for that – and just hold him for a while. Afterwards she'd cook lasagne because it was his favourite, and Harry would call him a mummy's boy, but she wouldn't say no to the ice-cream they got afterwards. She'd take them to the park when they were smaller, and kiss their knees better when they scraped them, and when they grew up she was so proud.

When he enlisted she'd been worried, but put on a brave face, and the night before he was shipped out she'd swept him up into her arms – even though he was much too big for that sort of thing now – and just held him close. Safe and sound in her arms.

She was everything John could have wanted in a mum.

But she couldn't come back from the dead.

He visits two graves once a month now; sometimes he visits more than once. He goes to his mum's grave first, putting down the flowers he'd bought for her and talking for a while. He used to talk about Sherlock when he came; now he struggles to find things to tell her.

He goes to the other man's grave after that, and he usually spends longer there. (He feels guilty about that, but he's sure his mum would understand.) He's never quite sure what flowers Sherlock would like; he probably wouldn't want any, sentiment and all that, but John brings some anyway, sticking with whatever suits his mood at the time.

He doesn't talk much to Sherlock after the first few visits: he runs out of interesting things to say and he can almost hear the younger man shouting "Boring!" at him. So he just updates him on how Mrs. Hudson's doing and then spends most of his time sitting there in silence. He doesn't talk about himself. There isn't anything to tell.

Eventually he leaves, entirely unaware of the other presence.

Sherlock watches as John makes his way through the gravestones to the exit, his limp back and his gait highly controlled. He follows his flatmate out; taking a route by Mrs. Watson's grave as he does. He pauses there for a minute, looking down at the ordinary woman who had gifted the world with such an extraordinary son.

John's mum couldn't come back from the dead, but Sherlock Holmes could.

~**fin**

**Thanks for reading; I'd love to hear what you thought!  
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